


Good Night, Grey Eyes

by imalwaysstraight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Disowning, Familial Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Food mention, M/M, Marauders' Era, f-slur, q-slur, well mostly angst, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4140966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imalwaysstraight/pseuds/imalwaysstraight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius wasn't surprised. After all, who would be? Who would be so daft as to think that the Blacks would want a son like him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Night, Grey Eyes

_january 1976._

“I saw it coming.”

That is a boldfaced lie, and Sirius Black knows it. He had not seen it coming in the slightest. He had considered it and theorized about it and attempted to predict the arrival time down to the second but he hadn’t seen it coming. Could he have?

Yes, he supposes now he could have- and he supposes he could’ve avoided it, too. He supposes he could have thought twice before that thing he said at King’s Cross at the end of Christmas break. He supposes he could have used a temporary sticking charm on the Gryffindor banner on his wall instead of a permanent one. He supposes he could’ve set the table for Christmas Eve dinner like his mother asked instead of sneaking out to spend the night in the park down the street, or actually packed to go home instead of wearing the lone Muggle outfit he owned and stealing Reg’s baggier clothes when it started to smell, or not sliced his father’s hand open with scissors two hours before Christmas Banquet. Although perhaps that last one had been really, truly unavoidable.

Sirius had been evading getting dressed for the dinner when that happened, face stuffed into his pillow and trying to be at Hogwarts or the Potters’ or Remus’s or Peter’s or Diagon Alley or anywhere else.  _Anywhere_  else.

It was hard to pinpoint what  _exactly_  was wrong with the Black family. Perhaps the rigid social hierarchy, perhaps the dearth of warmth and affection, perhaps the affinity for corporal punishment, perhaps the inbreeding (which, no matter how many jokes he cracked about it, actually did present a bevy of serious health risks). The thorough lack of trust, however, he decided as he tilted his head away from the pillow to get some air, might just be what would do them all in in the end. A wife could not trust a husband with her life, a cousin could not trust a confidante with their secrets, a child could not trust their own mother to love them- but hey, a mother couldn’t exactly trust her child with that, either, so at least it was mutual. Maybe it was everything- everything was just royally fucked up with the Blacks. Funny, he’d finally found one piece of genetics he’d managed to inherit.

His father knocked on his door solidly and didn’t wait for a reply. “Sirius, we’ve been needing- what on earth are you wearing?” The answer was boxers- the boxers James had sent him for Christmas via owl, to be more precise, and nothing else. They were patterned over with cartoonish stacks of books and script that read  _I like my men like I like my literature: well-read and bound in leather_. (Remus, he would find out about a month later, had received a coordinating pair covered instead in mugs, with   _I like my men like I like my coffee: hot and black_. They would quickly become his favorite pair of Remus’s underwear.)

He didn’t reply to Orion, just turned his face back into  the pillow. “Sirius, you’re supposed to be in your robes by now.” Sirius willed his father to leave, urging him mentally.  _Wow, look, a door! Why don’t you make use of it? Come on, get out._  “And there’s a talk we need to have, it’s about your hair and- well- Sirius?”

“I’m not going to talk about my hair, father,” he grumbled into the pillowcase.

“Sit up and look me in the eye when you speak to me!”

Trying his hardest not to implode, Sirius pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, flipping over to hang his legs off the bed. He pulled a pair of Regulus’s pajama bottoms off the floor as he repeated himself. “I’m not going to talk about my hair, father.”

“I said  _ **look at me**_!” Orion smacked a meaty, callused hand up against Sirius’s chin, grabbing his face and turning it upwards. “Look at me when you speak to me!”

Sirius inhaled deep and slow, but he wasn’t about to cry. He didn’t cry when slapped anymore. Good life skill, he supposed. “I would prefer not to talk about my hair, sir.”

“That’s not your choice. We’re going to cut it. Now.”

He gulped, holding eye contact. “And may I know why?” His father let go of his chin, and he slowly tied the drawstring on his trousers.

“I don’t think I have to tell you why,” his father rasped.

“I think you do,” Sirius replied, looking back up. One more slap.

“Insolent boy,” he muttered. “Because you look like- you- you look- your mother and I will not have it.”

“You’re not cutting my hair,” Sirius said, reaching instinctively for his bun. “You’re not. Over my dead body.”

His father had never been one to waste time. He lunged forward, grabbing at Sirius’s head, armed with open scissors. The grey-eyed boy, with panic caught up in his throat and pulse pounding, swatted at him, and as Orion forged onward, survival instinct kicked in blurrily. Sirius never meant to use the shears to  _cut_  him, it just- well- happened.

Sirius couldn’t remember much between “ _Imperio_!” and waking up in a cold sweat on the floor with bloody scissors in his hand (whose blood, it wasn't clear), hair cut nearly to the scalp, and long locks scattered around him.

 

Though the return to Hogwarts with a misshapen faux buzzcut caused quite the stir, the novelty and intrigue had died down by the fourth week of January, by which point the hair-growth potion brewed by Peter had begun to work, and Sirius had managed to wipe most of Christmas hols from his memory, or pretend he had.

At least until he looked up.

It was- that was- in the Great Hall- at  _dinner- oh_. His mother’s owl.

And a red envelope.

_[Owl? This time of day? Who’s it going to? Are you blind, it's at Gryffindor! Oi, Prewett, relax, it’s not yours. Did you say mail at Gryffindor? At dinner?]_

It dropped, and floated a bit.

And swirled around, and drifted downward.

And plummeted straight into his lap.

Sirius couldn’t move for a minute after that, paralyzed, staring at the Howler on his thighs. He could feel his roommates quiet around him.

“Sirius,” James started, in that godawful quiet voice he used around fragile, broken things. “Sirius, you need to open it. Or it’ll-”

“I know,” Sirius snapped. “I know. It’s probably nothing.” He didn’t look up at any of them as he fumbled trembling fingers around the envelope, carefully thumbing the flap open.

 

_**Sirius Orion Black!  Your father and I are extremely disappointed in the way you’ve allowed awful influences win you over. We are writing to inform you that those influences are not allowed in this family, and henceforth, neither are you. We’ve burned you off the family tree. We expected so much from you as an heir, but if you choose to be mudblood and a queer, so be it. It is not Black blood, that much is certain, and neither are you.** _

 

Silence does not sit still. It moves, ebbs, flows. It permeates into all things around it, rattling them up slowly until they might explode on touch. It soaks into cracks in the floor, splinters in wood, grooves in tables, each and every pore until something evicts it.

Sirius was certain, though, that despite how very much silence there was in the Great Hall most of it got clogged up in his throat, and he gagged on it noiselessly. He stared down at his dinner, refusing to look up at James or Peter across the table, or even Remus next to him- let alone any dead quiet Slytherins who were staring. He picked up his fork and, slowly, lifted a bite to his mouth. He couldn’t close his jaw around it. The fork clattered to the table, and then the floor. No one made a sound.

Trying not to look particularly emotional one way or another, and certainly not to let on that he wanted to light the whole room on fire, Sirius stumbled his way out of the bench and marched down the central aisle of the Great Hall, his skin burning with the myriad eyes focused on him. He tilted his head up a little. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt.

“Sirius-” James called softly, standing up.

Sirius whirled around, not bothering to aim his wand, and roared. “ _Stupefy!_ ” He was always a good shot, even through a hot haze of tears, and a gasp swept through the hall as James, caught unprepared, keeled backward over the bench.  _And what the fuck does James think he can do? The bastard doesn't have to be the hero every damn time_. McGonagall held her tongue, probably to the benefit of her own safety, and Peter and Madam Pomfrey leapt out from their seats to help him.

The grey-eyed boy suddenly found himself nauseous, glued to the spot. He flexed his jaw and cast a furious look around at the students who still dared gape at him.  _Fight me,_  it said.  _I will shred you._  He bit his lip and blinked back tears. His mouth opened and closed slowly, and he pivoted around and strode out.

* * *

 

“Nice detective work,” Sirius said, too loudly, not turning away from the window as uneasy footsteps tested the worn wood of the floorboards, stepping into the room behind him. “Guess you really do know me that well, huh?”

“Well, I…” Remus hesitated as he eased the door to the Room of Requirement shut. “I used the map, so…”

Sirius tried not to choke. “Remus, it…” He paused to take in air, and Remus took a tentative step closer.

“Mhm?” And there it was, in his voice. Sympathy. He’d had enough of that to fill a lifetime twice over.

Sirius whipped around towards him and yelled. “Don’t you feel sorry for me!”

“Padfoot, I don’t-”

“ _Yes_!” Sirius seethed at Remus through hot tears, his voice hoarse and cracking. Remus took hold of the back of a chair. ” _Yes_ , you  _do_! I can hear it in your fucking voice, you fucking bastard, you feel  _sorry for me_!” he bellowed, stalking toward him. “Don’t you fucking pity me, Lupin, I brought this on mys-- It’s all my-” And the air went out of his lungs.  

Remus was there to catch him, taking him in his arms and slowly, gently, pressing into Sirius. Sirius collapsed.

 

_waste of time_

_not my son_

_family disgrace_

_muggle-loving scum_

_waste of blood_

_faggot_

_mudblood_

_complete and utter letdown_

_waste of space_

_monster_

 

It took a good four minutes to get it all out: aching, wheezing sobs that soaked Remus’s shirt right through. Half the time, Sirius yelled into Remus’s chest, thrashing against him violently; the second half was silent. Even after he was done crying he stood there, not wanting to look up.

How was he supposed to look Remus in the eye after this? How was he supposed to look  _James_  in the eye after this? Who would even want to be around him, he was such a mess. Such a fucking mess.

“Are you scared?” Remus asked gently.

“Of?”

“Anything.”

“Sometimes, yeah. But not my parents.” Sirius sniffled. “I got over that fear long ago. Else I wouldn’t’ve made it to 16.” He sighed. “Besides, there are things out there that are actually scary. Like heights and hot people and spooky noises in the forest at night.”

“You forget, half those ‘spooky noises’ are actually me.”

Sirius snorted. He could hear the smile in Lupin’s voice. “Well, are  _you_  scared?”

“Of the noises?” The grey-eyed boy nodded. “Well, you can’t be scared of yourself. Else  _I_  wouldn’t’ve made it to 15.”

“Sure you can be scared of yourself,” Sirius countered. Remus was silent for a long moment. “Sorry.”

“No apology needed. Let’s just take this one major emotional trauma at a time, shall we?”

Sirius looked up. Remus looked perfect.

It was hard to not love Remus. Everyone seemed to have come to nonverbal agreement that this was the case. He’d been the glue of the Marauders through all the initial (and inevitable) roommate scuffles, he’d managed to find close friends in every other house by the end of first year (and become especially close to the Ravenclaw birds, too- maybe Remus should have been a Ravenclaw bird, Sirius thought to himself, they seemed to fit together naturally), not to mention how the librarians fawned over and doted on him (although not being on good terms with the librarians would have been bad for a person with an internal compass that oriented itself towards old parchment and fading ink). Even McGonagall was head over heels for him. What wasn’t there to love? You could say ‘kind, smart, and funny’ a thousand times, except for Sirius thought that sounded cliched and Remus was worth more than throwaway cliches. So maybe you’d say ‘gentlemanlike, brilliant, and wielding sarcasm so sharp that the Ministry should classify it as a lethal weapon’ but that was really just synonyms piled on. For someone with so many words, he was incredibly hard to describe.

So yes, everyone loved Remus. But Sirius, the olive-skinned boy thought as he studied his lover’s (boyfriend’s? partner-in-crime’s?) face, Sirius- well, Sirius might just take the cake.

“You’ve got that look again.” Remus cut into his thoughts. About Remus. Did it really count as cutting in, then?

“Hmm?”

“You make that face at me a lot and I can’t figure out if you’re judging my eyebrows or plotting my murder.”

Sirius grinned and put on a voice. “‘Oh, Remus, I would let you pound me into the wall until I forget my name, if only your left eyebrow weren’t so crooked.’” It set the both of them off into giggling fits, not letting go of each other as it died down. “And besides, murder might run in the family, but...” The smirk faded from Remus’s face, and Sirius could feel himself ready to dissolve into tears.

Instead, he reached over and kissed Remus’s neck.

Remus felt his knees begin to go out from under him, and--  _no_. Not the time. “Sirius, what are you doing?”

“Forgetting my name sounds like a bloody fantastic idea right about now.”

“No. You can’t fix this with sex.”

“Never did I think I would hear you say that.”

“I’m not going to--”

“How?” Sirius asked, voice trembling into Remus’s shoulder. “How did they know?”

Remus paused. “About what?”

“That I’m queer.” He gulped. “I never told them.”

Remus had the answer, and he didn’t want to give it. “Well, we’ve- you know- in more than a few places, it’s possible someone passed by and--”

“Regulus wouldn’t.” Black responded shortly to what Remus didn’t (wouldn’t) say.

“But Narcissa? Bellatrix?” Remus provided quietly. “Do you think-” Sirius didn’t hear him.

“Oh, my god, Reg-” Sirius forced out a weak sob. “Reg is all alone. Reg’s gonna be all alone. He’s gonna have no one. He’s gonna be all alone, he’s gonna fucking die, they’re gonna fucking kill him, and just because I had to go and be a fucking fag, I--”

The next morning, pulling Sirius gently off his chest and leaving him (exhausted from having spent the whole night alternating between thrashing, sobbing, and quiet whining) to doze on the couch, Remus slunk into the kitchen before the sun had so much as considered moving past the horizon and nicked some toast, rolls, jam, and tonight’s pudding because why the hell not. The pair ate their breakfast together at the window of the Room of Requirement, watching the sky over the lake marble purple, then pink, then orange, then purple again, then blue. This, Sirius thought to himself as he snuck glances at his sunrise-enraptured boyfriend in periphery, was the most beautiful moment he’d ever lived.

 

* * *

Remus had always resisted calling Sirius’s eyes ‘stormy grey’. There had always been better words. But now there was thunder and lightning there, and it never left.

* * *

 

“I completely saw it coming,” Sirius repeats himself now, slouching into the side of the bed a little more, louder this time. James nods solemnly at him, gently taking the empty bottle of firewhiskey out of his trembling hands. Peter shakes his head slowly. Remus just takes a deep breath, eyes studying the floor.

Sirius supposes he could have avoided it.

He also supposes he could have just not been born in the first place. That would solve everyone’s problems.


End file.
